My grandpa used to tell me about the time
he followed the railroad halfway to Oklahoma City and instead lost the last two
fingers on his right hand. It was the night he snuck out the back door,
and I believe it was the spring just after his little brother Danny died. [...]Read more...
was a brisk, Spring morning and mist rose from the side of the glacier
as the sun peaked over the mountain ridge. Guerro moved like a shadow
across the snowfield, darting between boulders thrust up through the
ice, an arrow knocked on his improvised bow. [...]Read more...
smoke drifted lazily from the smoldering butt, framing the man’s sallow
face in a ghostly pall as he lit another, leaned back in the groaning
oak chair, and planted his dirty loafers on the desk. [...]Read more...
The cacophony echoing from the open doors of the “Blind Bitch” tavern
rang across the docks and rebounded off the imposing, high-masted ships
anchored in the sheltered harbor as Joseph Bolger made his winding way
through throngs of drunken sailors, predacious prostitutes and
loud-mouthed. [...]Read more...
Steven was quite an ordinary man. He lived a simple, quiet life, in a
simple, quiet town, and worked a simple, quiet job. He had several
passions in his life, the foremost being brown clothing, followed
closely by an unerring punctuality and a closely-followed, repetitive
schedule. [...]Read more...